


sing me like a choir

by chajatta



Category: The Song of Achilles - Madeline Miller
Genre: M/M, chapter 15, the have i told you of this / tell me again moment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-13
Updated: 2020-09-13
Packaged: 2021-03-06 14:11:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26450170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chajatta/pseuds/chajatta
Summary: "I am certain," Achilles breathes, blissful, "that I have told you how I like this."Patroclus huffs a laugh. "You have," he says, feeling the sweet heat of Achilles' body all around him. Achilles' thighs over his hips, his hands roaming over Patroclus' chest. He must be able to feel each of Patroclus' ribs, every thud of his heart.
Relationships: Achilles/Patroclus (Song of Achilles)
Comments: 18
Kudos: 278





	sing me like a choir

**Author's Note:**

> I'm rereading The Song of Achilles and I just couldn't stop thinking about how nice it would be for Achilles to get railed. This is that fic, but also with Feelings.
> 
> Title from BITE by Troye Sivan

"This," Achilles says, delighted. "You know how I love this." He runs his hand down the velvet soft skin of Patroclus' dick, the delicate inside of his wrist flashing in the dark. Patroclus sighs and watches as Achilles sinks down, onto his haunches and further still, until he is puffing warm breaths over the crown. 

"I do know," Patroclus says, struggling to control his own breathing. Even such a basic function is a lot to expect, when Achilles is looking up at him like that, with golden curls framing his face.

"I would show you, anyway," Achilles says. He's grinning as he opens his mouth and sinks down, engulfing the tip of Patroclus' dick. Patroclus gasps, mindful of the other tents spread across the beach. They are surrounded by their Myrmidons, Achilles' men, too far from the other encampments to need to worry about the sound travelling. But Patroclus would not have word spreading too far; this is theirs, and theirs alone. 

Achilles sucks him down further and Patroclus touches a hand to his hair, feels the silken fall of it beneath his palm. Achilles preens, like one of the cats that used to haunt the palace in Phthia, lean and lazy in the summer sun. 

"Are you still in any doubt, Patroclus?" Achilles asks as he pulls away, his mouth bruised red. Patroclus leans forward to claim it, tastes the salt of himself on Achilles' lips. 

"No," Patroclus breathes. "There is never doubt." He cradles Achilles' face in one hand, strokes the curve of his cheek. "But I still find myself greedy for the reminder."

Achilles mouths at the webbing between Patroclus' thumb and forefinger. His tongue darts out, wet and hot, and it sends a jolt of pure heat through Patroclus' body, makes the muscles of his stomach leap. 

"Then let me remind you."

They rearrange themselves on the bed. It isn't so wide as Achilles' bed in Phthia, or even as soft as the bed they'd shared on Scyros, but any bed with Achilles in it is perfect enough for Patroclus. 

He watches as Achilles rummages through their things before returning with a jar of olive oil. Achilles pours it over his fingers and then spreads his legs, baring the smooth, muscular insides of his thighs. Patroclus shuffles into the space and lays his hands over them, spreads Achilles open, and watches as he slides a finger into himself. 

"Does this please you, Patroclus?" He asks with a smile. Patroclus leans down to kiss him, nips at his mouth, the leaping pulse in his neck. He slips another finger inside. "To see how I want you?" 

"You always please me," Patroclus answers. Achilles is hot beneath him and their skin begins to stick where it touches. Patroclus reaches down and takes Achilles in hand, strokes him as Achilles prepares himself. 

"Here," he says, sliding his fingers out and curling his wet hand over the meat of Patroclus' hip. The oil smears over his skin as Achilles moves him, guiding Patroclus to where he wants him. It doesn't take too much; Patroclus will always go wherever Achilles leads. 

The first press inside is always tight, but Achilles seems to relish it. His eyelids flutter, lashes trembling. Patroclus watches the shadows they cast dance over Achilles' cheeks, sees the flush of arousal as it gathers there. 

"I am certain," Achilles breathes, blissful, "that I have told you how I like this."

Patroclus huffs a laugh. "You have," he says, feeling the sweet heat of Achilles' body all around him. Achilles' thighs over his hips, his hands roaming over Patroclus' chest. He must be able to feel each of Patroclus' ribs, every thud of his heart. 

They move together, a wave kissing the shore. Patroclus leans down to mouth at Achilles' throat, his sternum, tastes the salt of his skin and the answering beat of his own heart. 

_Always,_ Patroclus thinks, desperate. He cannot lose this, cannot lose him. All the vast riches of the world and the pleasures it can offer will never compare to the man in his arms. Not the heat of his skin or the joy of his smile, nor the perfect pink soles of his feet. 

"Patroclus," Achilles breathes. His hands are gripping, now, his legs squeezing tight. He has his heel against the small of Patroclus' back, heavy like the anchors that hold their ships in the bay. Patroclus kisses him again, and again, Achilles' mouth parting easily beneath his, like the flesh of a fig beneath white teeth. 

Achilles slides a hand between them and they're pressed so close that Patroclus feels the ridges of his knuckles as he takes himself in hand, strokes. Patroclus lets him, until he feels wetness against his own stomach. Then he takes both of Achilles' hands in his own. Patroclus lifts them, kisses the pulse that races beneath each wrist. Achilles laughs, pleased. 

"Would you have me come untouched, Patroclus?" He asks. Patroclus feels dizzy with the thought of it and he holds tighter, threading his fingers through Achilles' and pressing them against the pillow. The position is a farce - Achilles could flip and pin Patroclus with the strength of his legs alone, but he doesn't fret, doesn't move expect to surge up against Patroclus, meeting the thrust of his hips, pressing his erection against Patroclus' belly. 

"Maybe," Patroclus says. "If you like it so much." 

There is sweat glistening in the dip of his collarbone and it shines like spun gold, even in the dark of the tent. Achilles' throat bobs and Patroclus kisses it, sucking, his lips coming away with a wet smack. 

"I do," Achilles says. He hitches one of his legs higher, until his knee hangs over Patroclus' shoulder. It forces Patroclus down and he feels the full body shudder that rolls through Achilles, his toes flexing by Patroclus' ear. Patroclus must be pressing into that secret spot inside him, because Achilles is free and effusive with his praise. 

"Right there," Achilles croons, sweet as a songbird at the dawning of spring. "Oh, Patroclus. My love. Just like that." 

Heat floods, unbidden, beneath Patroclus' skin. They've coupled countless times, taken each other in all ways they can, but like this the weight of Achilles' attention always threatens to overwhelm. 

"Is that good?" Patroclus whispers. Achilles moans, unfettered in his pleasure, and Patroclus swallows them down. He is sweeter than nectar, than ambrosia. Patroclus wants to swallow him whole. 

Achilles' hands are flexing, twisting in his grasp. His hips snap up, their bodies entwined, and then he releases, mouth open as he spills in a sticky mess across his own stomach. Patroclus feels the heat of it, the way his muscles bear down, and lets himself be drawn under the pure pleasure of it. 

They stay close, after. Patroclus pants in the dark, his ragged breaths lifting Achilles' hair up off his forehead. Their hands are still clasped and Achilles strokes gently, drawing circles with the pad of his thumb. 

Eventually, they part. Achilles is sticky with release, white on his stomach and between his legs. He likes it, Patroclus knows. He likes it too. Achilles lies back while Patroclus cleans him up, heels pressed into the cot. 

The tent still reeks of it, after, their lovemaking, but Patroclus can't bring himself to care. Not when Achilles lies next to him, hair tousled and breathing gently. He's still awake, though Patroclus can see that his eyes are heavy. He shuffles closer and presses a kiss to the perfect slope of his forehead. 

Soon, the rains will come, pattering on the roof of their tent. For now, it is just this, them, lying in the dark and listening to each other breathe. Achilles throws a leg over his hip, strokes his fingers over the coarse hair below Patrocus' navel. 

For now, it is just this, them. A life still worth living.


End file.
